Saturday, May 16, 2015

my glamorous week in review

I live a glamorous life.

This week has been particularly sleek and upscale. I'm not trying to make everyone jealous or anything, but like the "highlights of the red carpet", "who wore it best?", and "the CDC's most infectious diseases", the details of this week must be shared.

It all started with vomit. (What good parenting story doesn't begin with vomit, though??) Indeed, Mother's Day weekend lived up to the hype, and I got to "be a mom" all weekend. I wore yoga pants and a Mossimo tank top, carried a jug of bleach around in lieu of a designer bag, washed my hands every 22.3 seconds, and rocked some sweet dark circles under my eyes as a result of the various times I slept on the upstairs sofa to make sure I could hear the gagging when it began. We will call this look "puke chic" and trademark it before Gwyneth or the Olson Twins try to claim it.

On Monday, we thought the worst was over. But, NO. The excitement had only begun.

The next episode will be called "CSI Cedar Park: Crazy Dog meets Boy". I will give you only the facts: Two of my boys decided to ride their bikes around the neighborhood. A man was leaving for work. The man's dog sprinted straight out the front door when it opened and bit one of my boys on the ankle as he rode by. After a neighborhood search, we found the owners for the dog. The dog had not been vaccinated for rabies. The dog is now in quarantine at the vet to make sure he isn't rabid, and my son's wound is being watched carefully for infection. This is a wonderful way to make friends in a new neighborhood, by the way. I believe The Saturday Morning Post once had Norman Rockwell paint a picture of some neighbors chuckling over a bite wound as Animal Control rolled up and took the dog away. (Unexpected Bonus: We have now actually lived a piece of endearing Americana!)

By Thursday it seemed like life was smoothing out. (Haha! Weren't we cute to think that?)

The morning started so calmly: coffee, bible, cozy sofa blankets. Then Mr. Fantastic headed out the door for a breakfast meeting with some community group leaders from church. He called me out into the garage. I was expecting a new Maserati with a big red bow, of course, but instead he wanted to show me the PILES OF MAGGOTS covering the garage floor. The thousands of little cutie pies had somehow crawled out of our trash can as a result of the storm the night before. He was very sorry, but he had to go eat lemon poppyseed pancakes and turkey sausage at Mimi's with super awesome human beings instead of ridding our home of vile insects. Kiss, kiss! Have a great day, Sweetie!

I learned lots about maggots that day. They kind of crunch when you step on them. They hide under everything in the garage, so you will also have to remove every. single. thing. from the garage. (Feel free to BURN IT ALL if you need to. No one will dare to judge you.) Also. sweeping them into one area only works for a few minutes, because they quickly crawl away. You have to be fast to clean up maggots, you guys. Slackers won't succeed. Bring your A-game and try not to think about what you're actually doing while you're doing it. Also, the fun is never over. Once you think you're done, you'll see more maggots, and have to reclean everything at least twenty times. These creatures are the opposite of leprechauns and fairies: they are everywhere and they bear zero magical sparkle secrets. (Unexpected Bonus: Some nice "me time". The kids wanted no part of this glamour-filled experience.)

Once I was done I soaked in a bathtub of bleach and actually ran myself through the washing machine twelve times. It was the only way I could be allowed to to re-enter society.

By the afternoon, most of the maggot shock had worn off, and I was off to an appointment at the dermatologist. This portion of the glamorous story was similar to an episode of "ER", except from the later seasons without George Clooney, when no one wanted to watch it any more.

Because I have a complexion one step darker than "glow-in-the-dark" and one step lighter than "ghost-like", I get to have a stranger closely examine my skin for possible cancer problems all the time. For those of you who actually have melanin in your skin, you are really missing out on a good time. The dermatology "full body scan" is exactly like going to a spa, except not at all. Sure, you get to be mostly naked in front of perfect strangers, but that is where the spa-likeness ends. There is no "tribal beats and pan flute" music to soothe you as you are "examined". There are injections at both places, yes, but no one offers you cucumber water or a discount on a manicure next time after your biopsy is taken. You leave the spa feeling and looking way better, and you leave the dermatologist feeling and looking like a Frankenstein-type science experiment. The spa is far superior to the dermatologist, and yet they are similar in outrageous cost. Capitalism is baffling.

I have worn SPF a bazillion since I was in the womb, so you'd think I would be fine. But no, the same day as the maggots, I got to be sprayed with liquid nitrogen repeatedly and have some skin removed from my arm. The best part of this is that Boy 3 kept saying I got my face "lasered off" all night. I love him to infinity. (Unexpected Bonus: free bandaid in the "swag bag".)

By Friday, I was pretty sure the drama must be over. Alas, I am too adorable for words.

Because by Friday afternoon, there was more vomit. (What good parenting story doesn't end with vomit, though??) As I was pouring a bowl of puke down the drain all I could think was, "Don't throw up, don't throw up. don't throw up." because that is all anyone ever thinks when they are cleaning up vomit. (Unexpected Bonus: I did not throw up.)

The moral of the story is two-fold: First, The drama is never over. Second, the glamour of motherhood is overwhelmingly underwhelming.

This week, I hope we have long, boring, bug-free, bite-free, doctor-free days sitting (in the shade, for goodness sake) by the pool, free of the vomit that seems a little too common around here.

Also, I'm getting myself some of those lemon poppyseed pancakes. (Unless the Maserati finally shows up.)

No comments:

Post a Comment